One of those days watching the street early in the morning with a spiked coffee. Nothing much to say and less to do as the dawn turns to noon and volleyed to dusk. Today's goals are to never change from pajamas, never put on socks or shoes. Allow, from the moment you pour the first cup, the drinks to become more severe from morning to midnight.
We keep time on this porch by the progression of gingerbread shadow falling on the planks. The multitude rush off to work, carrying coffee, their minds riddled by the meetings and affairs of the day, a sure sign of 8am. Stomachs grumble, lips become wet, the po-boy man on his cart comes with his roast-beef and shrimp, ham and sausage, fried oyster and catfish. Alas we have noon. The mail hits the slot, a sign of afternoon. Siesta becomes a punch bowl of conversation with others that have managed to evade the responsibilities of the world. Children rush out of school buses, a sign of 3pm. The sun continuing its arch toward the west. The madness of 9-5 returns home, the only difference in their tension, is a loosened color or an askew hair-do.
Cheers to all we say, lifting our staffs of rum, to whatever gods have allowed us to be spared of this day, this pilgrimage to the work-force. Perhaps one day it will cost us, but for now, we have enough for another bottle.
Now who is going to the store?